


cold blooded

by angryjane



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Anxious Aziraphale (Good Omens), Crowley is Bad at Being a Demon (Good Omens), Crowley is a Mess (Good Omens), Cuddling & Snuggling, Fluff, Fluffy Ending, Idiots in Love, Ineffable Husbands (Good Omens), Ineffable Idiots (Good Omens), Love, M/M, Mutual Pining, No Angst, No Plot/Plotless, Oblivious Aziraphale (Good Omens), Prompt Fic, Self-Indulgent, Sharing a Bed, Short & Sweet, Softie Crowley (Good Omens), Sweet, This is so soft, Tooth-Rotting Fluff, ineffably in love more like, s o f t, what is plot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-31
Updated: 2019-07-31
Packaged: 2020-07-27 16:31:00
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,105
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20049109
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/angryjane/pseuds/angryjane
Summary: Crowley, despite being one of the most powerful and feared demons of all time (in his humble opinion, of course), is cold.





	cold blooded

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Zildie](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Zildie/gifts).

> this is,,, so soft uwu

Though he prided himself on not needing anyone but himself, he had to admit he needed help right now. 

It was 1962, and Crowley was desperate: the worst winter in the history of England would be his downfall.  Aziraphale _ had _ always said he was cold-blooded. It was true, of course, but the angel meant it in the metaphorical sense, and what Crowley was suffering from right now was not remorse. 

Even clad in the finest furs and curled up in a cozy armchair in front of the fireplace, he was shivering. It made him feel weak, really. He could miracle himself warm, but it was fleeting and inorganic. What he needed now was a cat to crouch on his chest and bat at his cheeks; a living warmth. He needed to be  _ touched _ .

Against his will, an angel flitted across his mind; bright smile, round cheeks, warm as the sun. 

He pushed it away and turned in his seat, burrowing further into the plush pillows. It was embarrassing, pathetic even: a demon with a soft spot for an angel, and a goody-goody one at that. 

But he was warm, and that was something, prodded a piece of him: the piece that’s already given in to whatever bullshit his heart was saying. That bloody bastard of an organ—he had half a mind to rip it from his chest, that’d show it. 

“No.” He told himself aloud. The plants didn’t answer; the clock ticked in reply; the wind hit the windows outside and the moon glistened mockingly on the snow. 

“No.” He repeated. It was accompanied by a numbed hand burying itself in his hair—done in natural waves, as was the style—and legs kicking out in front of him.

“I said,” He sneered through clenched teeth, even as he stood, “ _ No.” _

His feet carried him to the door, his fingers snapped to miracle him away, and then he was outside the bookshop, shivering in the frigid air. 

“No,” He muttered even as he knocked. 

“We’re closed! Call again later!” Even telling off what could be a total asshat of a stranger,  Aziraphale was pleasant. 

“It’s me, you dolt.” 

There was a moment’s hesitation, then the top lock, the middle, the bottom lock came slowly undone.  _ Click _ , and Crowley hated himself for tensing in anticipation,  _ click _ , and he tapped an impatient foot, _ click _ , and he called himself a traitor when his stomach dropped at the sight of his angel. 

He was wearing a sweater, but otherwise looked the same: hair combed back this time of night,  slippered feet and soft eyes and mouth. There was a mole under his right ear that had not been there last century. 

“Hello, Crowley,” the angel whispered, stepping back  a ways , “Do come in.”

“Maybe I  _ will _ ,” Crowley huffed, even as he pushed through. Even the angel’s home was warmer than his own, cozier and breathing. 

“Cocoa?”

“Yes.” He dropped into a worn wooden chair  w ooden chair at the small table, sweeping a stack of important-looking papers off the table as he did so. They scattered in the stale bookshop air  and  landed silently on the floorboards like so many feathers.  White feathers, covered in black ink. He smiled.

Aziraphale came back with two cocoas and sat across form him. 

“What can I do for you, Crowley?”

At the question, Crowley tensed: what was he even here for?  _ I’m cold,  _ _ Aziraphale _ _ , hold me tight and make me warm. Then we’ll ride off to Alpha Centauri and be happy boyfriends in the stars. _ _ _

He scowled into his mug. 

“Nothing, angel. You make good cocoa, is all.” He lied:  Aziraphale’s cocoa was horrid, bitter and sharp; the cocoa was most certainly not the occasion for the visit.  Crowley liked it sickeningly sweet, like the angel himself. This was more like sop in a pig’s trough than what the demon liked. 

Even so, the angel brightened at that, sitting straighter in his seat. “Really? Do you mean it, dear?”

Despising the was his fingers tingled at the name, Crowley glanced up at his companion, “Would I lie to you?” 

Aziraphale hesitated, and coughed, and then tried, “Well, no. I  s’pose not.” He grinned, teeth blinding. 

“Then do you think I’d lie to you now?”

“ Er ... No.” He blinked, cocking his head like a confused bird and sucked a lip between his teeth; Crowley watched it disappear and tightened long fingers on his mug. “But is that the reason you’re here? My... cocoa?”

The demon raised an eyebrow at his counterpart, who blushed but continued to look on, waiting for a response: “Guess so.” Is all Crowley offered, lips tugging down into a wide  frown.

“...Drink up, then, dear.” 

They're silent a moment, neither looking at the other: Crowley’s eyes dart between used and abused books, catch on a shelf labelled “Erotic Novella,” slide back to the angel and down to the pin on his lapel, it’s a golden snake;  Aziraphale is busy patting his knees in an anxious rhythm, gaze locked on the knees of the demon’s tight  trousers , then, “I can’t imagine that’s comfortable, in this weather.” The ankles are too short for his lanky limbs, and there’s rips all down one side of the thin fabric. 

“Yes, it is quite cold.” The other concedes, eyes still glued to the pin on his companion’s lapel, “When did you get that?”

“What?”

“That, there, the snake pin.” A vague wave, a gesture really, towards the other’s chest, and the pin glows blue for  a moment. 

Aziraphale blinks, “Oh, that old thing.... Remember in the twenties, when you went abroad to the States? I kept this on me to, well, have a piece of you I suppose, is all.” If he were the kind to shrug, he would do so now.

“Oh,” Is all the response he gets, and then: “I... like it.”

An awkward pause passes, which infuriates Crowley because he doesn’t  _ do  _ awkward, especially not with his angel. 

“Some storm out there.”  Aziraphale tries again, “Worst I’ve seen in quite a while. At least since Arthur. ”

“My apartment’s heating is out.” 

“Oh, so  _ that’s _ why you’re here.”

“Yup.” A pop on the p, and yet it’s still a lie. The heating works just fine. “You’re warm.” 

He looks surprised, and Crowley is cursing everything above and below and between because that’s not what he meant to say. He meant  _ your place is warm _ , but he never quite gets what he wants. 

No, that’s not right: he gets the one thing he wants, he thinks, eying the angel, just not the way he wants it.

“I... see. What would you, er, like me to... do about that?”

“ _ Do _ about it? I don’t think there’s much you could  _ do _ about it, darling.” He folded his arms across himself, in what he hoped was a  nonchalant manner but was  actually self-defense , leaning back in his chair. It creaked loudly, echoing in the empty shop, and the angel winced in front of him, not meeting his eyes.

“I disagree, Crowley.” 

“And why’s that.” It’s a statement, not a question, laced with disbelief, and, to Crowley’s enormous chagrin, a dash of hope. His lip curls unintentionally, and his hands feel jittery. He sloshes the mug with one, the other coming to run through his hair. 

“Well, you know, the humans, they... are lonely beings.”  Aziraphale starts, stops, and goes on, “And they deal with it, at times, especially the cold times, by, well... it’s c alled ‘cuddling.’”

Eyes narrowed, “And how do you do it?” Crowley knows dan well how you do it, but he’d like to hear the other say it, just so he knows what he’s suggesting. He wouldn’t put it past the angel to completely misunderstand even this. It was infuriatingly endearing. 

“Well, most of the time, you lie down. Somewhere soft and warm. Like a bed or a sofa.”  _ Or your lap? _ “And the other person lies with you.”  _ Lies with you lies with you lies with you _ , Crowley’s mind echoed at him as the angel went on: “And you... you touch. A lot. And sort of come together.” 

It took all Crowley’s will and a small bit of miracle not to let himself color at that, and to raise a suggestive eyebrow instead.

It worked;  Aziraphale paled, then pinkened, and it was a glorious sight. “Not... like that, you.”

“Like what, angel?”

Aziraphale glared, huffing, then sat up a little  straighter . “Never mind already.” 

“No, no, do go on. Really. I’m intrigued. Would you like to... demonstrate this ‘cuddling’? Perhaps you could teach me, oh  wi s e one?”

The angel started. “Are you... being serious? Or is this  another of your tricks?”

“No trick, just treat.” He winked for good measure, standing from his seat. “I wouldn’t suppose you have a bed lying around here?” 

Aziraphale shook his head, silent and pale. 

“Right then,” And with a snap of devilish, dexterous fingers, an ornate four-poster bed was in the open space in the middle of the shop. There were silk sheets, goose-down pillows, the whole shebang. “Shall we?”

“Are oyu... sure about this?” But even as he said it,  Aziraphale was standing, shuffling towards the bed. He slipped his loafers off, sitting on the edge of the mattress. It dipped softly under his weight. 

From the other side, the demon was crawling over, shoes abandoned. He was wearing pink wool socks, and Aziraphale couldn’t help but snort. 

“What?”

“Nothing, nothing, dear... I just never thought I’d see a demon in pink socks. Especially not  _ you _ , of all demons.”

“What do you mean, especially not me? Pink is a righteous color!”

“Exactly. Aren’t you against all things righteous?”

“Not  _ all _ things righteous, angel. I’m not against you.”

He wanted to kick himself. He really was one soft motherfucker, when it came down to it, and it disgusted him beyond measure. 

But then  Aziraphale’s face was splitting slowly into the most precious, delighted smile  Crowley’d ever seen, and he couldn’t find it in himself to regret the slip-up. 

He cleared his throat, and shuffled further into the bed, sitting so their knees brushed. “Well, then, darling, are you going to teach me or what?” 

“Right, right.”  Aziraphale looked nervous, gulping showily. The demon’s eyes followed the movement, and he shifted his weight on the bed.

“You- Are you- Do you-  Er .” A deep breath. “There’s this thing.”

“A thing.” Crowley repeated helpfully, watching his angel with careful eyes.

“Yes, a thing. It’s called ‘spooning,’ my sources say.”

“Mm, sources. And what sources are those?”

Aziraphale looked down at his counterpart's socks, mumbling, “Books.” 

Crowley smiled, remembering the shelf he’s spotted earlier, but kept it to himself. “Alright, what’s this forking about?”

“Not... Not forking!”  Aziraphale squawked, face heating. “ _ Spooning _ , Crowley. Spooning.” He swallowed again. “It’s... you know when you have a larger spoon, and a smaller spoon, you can cradle the smaller one with the larger one?” 

Crowley blinked, amused, and secretly overjoyed. “You want to cradle me, angel? Is that what you’re trying to say?” 

“...Only if you’d like to.” 

“ Of course I’d like to. Lie down.”

The angel obliged, and Crowley followed, facing him. They were breathing the same air, feeling the same mattress, the same  silk , hearing the same clock tick gently at their side, the same low hum of anticipation—thinking the same thought:  _ What now? _

“...You have to turn around.”  Aziraphale breathed, hesitantly. Crowley found his mouth was  suddenly dry, his heart was suddenly still, his pulse was suddenly quickening, as he rolled over. 

In the silence, the stillness: a rustle of sheets, a breath in, held, one two, three, four counts, then warm arms around the demon’s waist; a warm body at his back; a soft sigh against his neck. One by one, slowly, ever so slowly, his muscles relaxed, he too let out a breath, a contented one. A leg curled between his own, hesitant and gentle. In one cold right shoulder, a nose buried. Against his stomach, his sternum, a soft hand danced; a smile in his collarbone. 

And then, quiet, in his ears and against his skin and so, so close, bouncing through his hollow skull and steeping heart—a laugh. 

“Quite nice, isn’t it.” It’s a whisper, Crowley can’t help it. Everything about this moment is glass. Everything about this moment is gentle. Everything about this moment is  _ real _ , but a dream. 

“Yes. It is.” A giggle, this time, one Crowley has heard a million times but never this close. “Why haven’t we done this before?”

“Never thought of it.”

“Liar.”

“You know me all too well, darling.”

“Only you, dear.”

**Author's Note:**

> comments would be lovely!!!   
also: come join the [disaster discord!!!](https://discord.gg/eAetgQg)


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